Classic Poem

The night before the murder was to be,
I drew my long, keen dagger from its sheath,
And stole on down the marble stair-way, past
The throne-room, to the curtained arch wherein
My brothers lay asleep. No dream beset
The guilty Dead-Sea of their rest. They lay
Engulfed in pillows, like two ships mid waves.
I saw their faces, and the one was fair.
Long dark brown hair fell from his noble brow,
And on the silken billow of the couch lay curled
Like spray. The other face was cold and dark
I felt no pity in my angry breast
For this, the older brother of the twain.
Yet he it was who always praised me most.
Praise is a dust of diamond that, if thrown
Well in the eyes of even noble men,
Will blind them to a host of flagrant faults.
The moon was full, and 'twixt two silvered clouds
Looked forth, like any princess from between
The tasseled curtains of her downy bed.
The vagrant wind came through the opened blind,
And whispered of the desert; with its hand
Fanning the flame that in the silver urn
Mimicked a star. Beneath the rays I wrote:
I should have slain you both for your intent
Of murder; but I spare, you, and I go.
So, take the kingdom, and ride long and well.
Between them there I laid the paper down,
Then thrust my dagger, to the golden hilt,
Through it, deep in the couch. So passing on,
I came to that high room wherein my sire,
The king, lay sick, and drifting near to death.
My tutor at his feet, and on the floor,
Embraced by needed sleep, lay like a dog.
I came to see the king's face once again,
Ere, like a maid who in her lover trusts,
I gave myself up, body and soul,
To the great desert and the world beyond.
How sweetly slept the king! His long white beard,
And venerable face, were undisturbed
By even the breezy motion of his breath.
Surely, I thought, the fever must have passed.
I bent down tenderly to kiss the cheek.
How cold! God help me, can the king be dead?
My heart gave one wild bound, driving a wave
Of grief, vast as a mountain, up the sands
Of my bleak desolation. The wave broke
Into a blinding mist of tears at last.
I longed to moan out my despair, but paused,
Checking my sobs to kiss the face once more;
Then moved from the strange room, parting with care
The massive silken curtains, fearful then
Their rustle might attract some wakeful ear.
I found the jewels of the crown, and these
With all my own I in a bag secured,
And hung about my neck, beneath my robe.
Noiseless as a ghost I passed the hall,
And down the stair-way wrought of sandal-wood
Made lightest footsteps. As I stole
Along the alcoves where the maidens slept,
A lady stood before me. She outstretched
Her white and naked arms, and round my neck
Entwined them. She was the captive, Veera,
Once held for ransom from some Bedouin tribe;
But when the coin was brought she would not go;
At this the king was pleased, for thus she made
Perpetual peace between him and her kin.
No maid in Mesched up and down, was found
To rival her for beauty. All her words
Were apt and good, and all her ways were sweet.
I, in her happy prison, ivory-barred
By her white arms, was restless for release.
She would not set me free until I told
The purport of my vigil, and revealed
The place whereat my journey would be done.
I did not wait to pay her back her kiss.
I hurried to the stables, where I found
My coal-black steed. He neighed and pawed the floor.
I bound the saddle firmly, grasped the reins,
And in a moment passed the city's gate,
And shot out on the desert, where the wind
Made race with us, but lagged behind at last.